


Croissants

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3321587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis' croissants are shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Croissants

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of old fic from my tumblr.

They agree the croissants are shit, so they toss them out for the birds. Admittedly, the only reason they agree ( _however_ bad the croissants taste) is because Francis dislikes the croissants for being shop-bought and Arthur likes that Francis dislikes the croissants because Francis bought them from a shop in _France –_ but either way they agree, and Francis gets sent out into the garden’s cold morning (not without various melodramatic _you are so cruel_ s from Francis and mournful laments about what the frost will do to his precious _hair_ ) to put the things masquerading as pastries on Arthur’s bird-table, broken up into little pieces so that smaller birds may come, take a small piece and immediately fly away with it, should they wish.

Arthur brews tea – rich Assam, strong and black until a dash of milk turns it a welcoming brown cream -, folds his feet into the long hems of his pyjamas, away from the cool breeze coming in through the door, and smiles, a little, at the intrigued cheeps already sounding all about his garden, wings rustling in the bushes as Francis leaves the bird-table and comes back inside.

He smells like ozone and the morning – Arthur accepts the brief kiss he’s offered since Francis has remembered to shut and lock the door again, but he chokes and slams down his cup when Francis slides cold fingers down the back of his collar, jabbing Francis in the gut to make the other double over and _wheeze._

Arthur _hmphs_ as Francis pouts – it serves the arsehole right so there is _no_ sympathy to be found from English quarters -, but he unfolds himself, slips from his seat to pour the frog out another cup of tea, very black, very hot, very liable to end up over Francis’ head if his hands don’t remove themselves from where they’re suddenly threatening to slide up from Arthur’s hips, find the warmth under his top.

“Try it and die,” Arthur says, very flat, still, with the teapot fat and dangerous in his hands.

Francis just kisses Arthur’s neck, softly, the tip of his nose very cool. There are birds chirping outside, an indignant blackbird trying to defend the entire bird-table from three hungry sparrows – Arthur puts the teapot down, watches them, lets Francis’ arms slip around a little bit more.

“I _told_ you not to bring that French shit,” Arthur says.

He feels Francis shrug against him, a roll that pushes Francis’ chest more firmly against Arthur’s back. “The birds seem happy enough.”

They watch the birds in the garden conduct their silliness a little longer (really, there is quite enough of the shitty croissants out there for them all), and then leave the window to drink their tea.


End file.
